Little Jon sighed, "All right!" he said: "I suppose I must put up with
that. Mum?"
"Yes?"
"What was her name that Daddy believes in? Venus Anna Diomedes?"
"Oh! my angel! Anadyomene."
"Yes! but I like my name for you much better."
"What is yours, Jon?"
Little Jon answered shyly:
"Guinevere! it's out of the Round Table--I've only just thought of it,
only of course her hair was down."
His mother's eyes, looking past him, seemed to float.
"You won't forget to come, Mum?"
"Not if you'll go to sleep."
"That's a bargain, then." And little Jon screwed up his eyes.
He felt her lips on his forehead, heard her footsteps; opened his eyes
to see her gliding through the doorway, and, sighing, screwed them up
again.
Then Time began.
For some ten minutes of it he tried loyally to sleep, counting a great
number of thistles in a row, "Da's" old recipe for bringing slumber. He
seemed to have been hours counting. It must, he thought, be nearly time
for her to come up now. He threw the bedclothes back. "I'm hot!" he
said, and his voice sounded funny in the darkness, like someone else's.
Why didn't she come? He sat up. He must look! He got out of bed, went to
the window and pulled the curtain a slice aside. It wasn't dark, but he
couldn't tell whether because of daylight or the moon, which was very
big. It had a funny, wicked face, as if laughing at him, and he did not
want to look at it. Then, remembering that his mother had said moonlit
nights were beautiful, he continued to stare out in a general way. The
trees threw thick shadows, the lawn looked like spilt milk, and a long,
long way he could see; oh! very far; right over the world, and it all
looked different and swimmy. There was a lovely smell, too, in his open
window.
'I wish I had a dove like Noah!' he thought.
"The moony moon was round and bright, It shone and shone and made it
light."
After that rhyme, which came into his head all at once, he became
conscious of music, very soft-lovely! Mum playing! He bethought himself
of a macaroon he had, laid up in his chest of drawers, and, getting it,
came back to the window. He leaned out, now munching, now holding his
jaws to hear the music better. "Da" used to say that angels played on
harps in heaven; but it wasn't half so lovely as Mum playing in the
moony night, with him eating a macaroon. A cockchafer buzzed by, a moth
flew in his face, the music stopped, and little Jon drew his head in.
She must be coming! He didn't want to be found awake. He got back into
bed and pulled the clothes nearly over his head; but he had left a
streak of moonlight coming in. It fell across the floor, near the foot
of the bed, and he watched it moving ever so slowly towards him, as if
it were alive. The music began again, but he could only just hear it
now; sleepy music, pretty--sleepy--music--sleepy--slee.....